


Mourning Phoenix

by KtwoNtwo



Series: A Piece of Eight [4]
Category: One Piece, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Space Pirates, slash goggles optional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:31:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8351026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KtwoNtwo/pseuds/KtwoNtwo
Summary: A dead body and a unique bird in the Royal Preserve Park on Londinium Orbital has greater implications than expected for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.





	1. Of Birds and Bodies

It wasn’t the first time Sherlock and I had been summoned to a crime scene at zero three hundred.  It wasn’t even the first time we had ended up in the Royal Preserve, the park that runs through the center of the Londinium Orbital, investigating a dead body.  However it was the first time that such events were accompanied by bird song.  

Greg Lestrade, a Detective Inspector with the Metropolitan Security Forces, had bipped Sherlock requesting his assistance with a dead body/missing person case.  Of course I had started awake when Sherlock’s peeda went off and there was nothing to it but to trail along, as was my habit, in the great detective’s wake. 

Lestrade was quick to brief us when we arrived.  The crime scene was in one of the few areas of the Royal Preserve where the surveillance coverage was thin.  The first constable on the scene had snagged the feed from the closest two cameras but it didn’t show much.  Two guys walking into the park, a jogger, and a worker heading home from the pub.  Neither of the original two guys showed up on the feed by the time the first camera had rotated back into its original position.  The second feed wasn’t any better.  It caught the jogger but not the inebriated worker or the two people.  The only thing that I could determine from the footage was that the shorter of the two initial people entering the park was most likely the dead body lying on the ground.

“It happened fast,” remarked Lestrade.  “The first camera is set to revolve every five ticks automatically the second one is motion activated.  I’ve got a request in for the rest of the feeds in this area but it will be mid-morning at the earliest before we get those.” 

Sherlock looked up from the tablet playing the surveillance footage for the second time and glanced around.

“When you get the other video find the drunk and the jogger,” he advised Lestrade.  “Given his speed and the direction of travel one or the other of them may have seen something.”

“We have the jogger,” Lestrade replied.  “He’s the one that called in a public nuisance complaint.  He heard loud mournful bird song and thought someone was playing a prank.  Constable Dickenson of the local station was sent to investigate and he found the body as well as the bird.”

“Bird?” Sherlock asked looking a bit confused.

Of course Sherlock Holmes would be the only person on station who could walk into a park and be more interested in a dead body than the unmistakable sound of birdsong in a place where birds were not normally in residence.  I had noticed it and chalked it up to background sounds that were sometime played over the park’s speakers to enhance the ambiance but now that Lestrade had mentioned it I could tell that it wasn’t a recording.  It was a mournful set of trills and chirps in a minor sounding key.  Every so often it would pause for a bit then start again.

“It’s up in that tree over there,” Lestrade pointed.  “Dickenson says it quieted down soon after he had found the body but it’s been doing that on and off ever since.”

As if to punctuate Lestrade’s remark the bird in question stopped singing.  Sherlock shrugged clearly dismissing the bird for the moment.  He caught my eye and gave a little head jerk in its direction.  I knew my cue.  I turned and walked over to the forensics equipment, snagged a pair of gloves then headed toward the body.

“I hope,” I heard Sherlock say to Lestrade, “You have managed to keep your team from trampling all the evidence.”

“As if there is any evidence to trample,” I heard Sargent Sally Donovan mutter under her breath as I went past her.

I didn’t acknowledge that I’d heard and continued on.  There was something about the way the body was positioned that was giving me a case of déjà vu.  When I got up close I realized why.  The man was relatively young and very fit but judging from the marks around the body had fallen down in a convulsive fit before expiring.  It was clear from his face and the arch in his back that his death had been excruciatingly painful.  Armed with that knowledge I went looking for something specific.  I started with the exposed skin first; hands, face, neck.  I found what I was looking for at the join between the young man’s neck and shoulder.  It looked like a pin prick but I knew what it really was.

“Can someone get me a pair of tweezers and an evidence bag?” I asked the group at large.

“Cause of death?” Sherlock asked from across the body.  He’d made an initial circuit of the crime scene and had decided to see if I’d come up with anything that might help him refine his search. 

“Needle gun,” I replied shortly. 

Sally Donovan came up behind me and handed me the tweezers.  She didn’t say anything but I assumed she had the evidence bag.  I dug a bit in the wound and found what I’d hoped to find, the projectile. 

 “Bag.”

Sally held it open and I gingerly placed the needle dart inside.

“Judging by Watson’s demeanor,” Sherlock commented to Sargent Donovan, “you need to be careful with that.  It’s highly poisonous.”

 “No shit,” she muttered.  “I could tell that by looking at the body.”

 I didn’t bother to call her on the outright falsehood.  She’d been opining that the poor sod had a heart attack when we’d arrived.  Instead I had other things on my mind such as ensuring that none of the people working the crime scene would get poisoned if there was additional ammunition around.  As I started to stand something else caught my eye near the wound.  The skin toward the young man’s shoulder looked slightly different.  I stopped and pulled the shirt aside.  As I’d suspected the faintly discolored area was about 8 cm across and roughly circular in shape. 

 “Tattoo removed?” Sherlock asked but added before I could reply, “or still there but only visible under certain light spectrum.”

 “Try black-light first,” I replied as I stood, “Medically it’s safest so it’s most common for that sort of thing.

 “So, needle gun?” Lestrade asked as Sally went to mark and log the bag.

 “Uh, huh with a highly toxic poison on the darts rather than a simple soporific. 

 “Ok,” Lestrade replied then raised his voice, “Folks anyone searching needs to glove up.  We’re dealing with a highly toxic poison on a needle dart so be careful where you put your hands.”

 I looked around.  Sherlock had straightened up and was looking around deliberately scanning for something.  His gaze stopped for a second on a small pile of compost then he strode off deliberately toward the trees and shrubs that were on the edge of the scene.

 “What kind of poison do you think we are dealing with here?” Lestrade asked.

 “We won’t know for sure until Molly runs a tox-screen but if I had to guess from the effects I’d say a variety of distilled box fish toxin.” 

 I realized that I’d need to have someone ask Molly, the pathologist who worked for the MSF, if her toxic database had all the mill-spec data loaded.  Box fish toxin wasn’t something you’d normally run into in an urban setting given how difficult it was to obtain. 

 “Never heard of it,” said Lestrade.  “Where would someone source something like that?”

 “It wouldn’t be easy,” I replied.  “It’s unique to the Pescarian system.  Some of the fish-men synthesize it and by the time they get done with the raw toxins the results can be anywhere from hallucinations to paralysis to almost instant death.  There are versions which are sold widely on the black market and are relatively generic from multiple sources.  The more fatal ones however tend to be specific to particular clans or schools.  Those varieties the fish-men don’t give to just anyone, only trusted members related to their school need apply.” 

 “So we should be able to back trace the poison to a particular fish-men clan?” Lestrade asked.

 “Good luck with that.  They keep the formulas close and the identity of the particular school synthesizing which variant even closer.”

 “Lovely,” Lestrade muttered just as a young member of the forensics team walked up with a black-light wand.

 “Where do you want this sir?” she asked.

 “I’ll take it,” I held out my hand. 

 I was curious as to whether it was indeed a secret tattoo on the body.  There were a few groups in this quadrant of the galaxy that used secret tattoos to identify members.  If the body had one of these then Lestrade might have a shot at figuring out what was going on.  The forensics tech handed me the wand but before I could take a look at the body Sherlock gave a loud _Ha!_ from next to a tree.  Both Lestrade and I turned to see what he’d found.

 “Here’s the other dart!” he said indicating a point about a meter up on the tree trunk.  “Needle guns are a relatively short range weapon designed for close quarters combat on spaceships.  The darts are subsonic and meant to pierce skin and deliver a drug payload not to do much damage in and of themselves.  This one missed its target, hit the tree and would have fallen to the ground but for the fact that it got caught in the tree bark.” 

 The forensics tech had reached him by then and was peering at the section of tree he was pointing at.

 “Wow,” she said.  “It must have lost most of its momentum by that point.  Otherwise it would have just bounced rather than ending up there.”

 Sherlock looked at her then commented, “Keep this one Lestrade.  She at least has a brain in her head!” 

 He turned and ambled back over toward us.  I could see from the look on his face that he was thinking furiously.  I decided that it might be a good to see if there really was a tattoo on the body.  I went down on my knee and flicked on the black light wand.  Bingo.  The design was two crossed lines overlaid with a crescent that had its tips just touching the horizontal line.  I snapped a picture and stood up.

 “I don’t recognize that one,” remarked Lestrade, “is it new?”

 Sherlock made an intrigued noise then said, “Whitebeard pirates.  You don’t often see that tattoo anywhere other than on the Line or over in World Collective space.  Usually it’s purple and visible.  Their intelligence agents don’t have identifying marks, they are too smart for that.  So why would someone have a…” Sherlock trailed off his face contemplative.  After a tick or so he looked around suddenly and asked, “Where’s the bird?  The bird saw the whole thing!”

 Lestrade was starting to look annoyed, “Come on Sherlock what am I supposed to do, interrogate a bloody bird?”

 “No, you are supposed to help me catch it!  The bird is the key.”

 Lestrade opened his mouth but just then the bird in question made a loud squawk from a tree branch just above our heads.  We all looked up and I for the first time that evening got a good look at the avian whose song had resulted in the discovery of the body.  I didn’t expect to recognize the bird but I did.  About the same size as one of the smaller eagles its feathers were shades of blue ranging from turquoise to royal with two long yellow tail feathers.  It was the avian shifter whom Sherlock and I had assisted it in getting back to its ship unnoticed about half a stan-year or so previously.  Later Sherlock had informed me that said shifter had actually been one Marco, Captain of the starship Phoenix and a division commander for the Whitebeard Pirates.

 “Oh,” Sherlock exclaimed in a tone of surprise, “that explains everything!”

 “To you maybe but could you enlighten the rest of us mere mortals?” Lestrade grumbled.

 “That is a Firebird,” Sherlock intoned as if that fact alone should make things clearer.

 “And?”

 “They are originally from the Rulanska system, endangered, highly intelligent, very sought after and extremely expensive.”

 “So this guy is a poacher?” Lestrade gestured at the body.

 “Not exactly,” Sherlock replied as he looked around the crime scene again.

 It was common behavior for Sherlock to take one last look before starting off on explaining his deductions.  This time I could tell however that Sherlock was stalling.  I doubt anyone else would have caught it but I knew he was looking for a way to explain whatever he had deduced about the events of the evening without blowing the cover of the avian shifter who was currently sitting in the tree.  I was curious to see exactly what he came up with.

 “This bird is clearly the mascot of the Whitebeard ship called the Phoenix.  This gentleman,” Sherlock indicated the body, “absconded with the mascot and was attempting to sell him to your second gentleman who I suspect you will find has substantial smuggling connections.  At some point the discussions became heated and second gentleman pulled his needle gun firing two shots grazing once and hitting with the second shot.”

 “So where’s the gun and the second person then?” asked Lestrade.

 “Right in front of you,” Sherlock replied pointing at what I think most everyone, myself included, had dismissed as a pile of mulch or fertilizer for use on the plants.  “When you analyze that you will find that they are incinerated human remains and potentially the remnants of the needle gun.”

 “How did he get like that?  Our dead guy didn’t have a blaster.  In fact he didn’t have any weapons at all!”

 Sherlock looked up at the bird.  “It’s a good thing I think that firebirds don’t get annoyed very easily,” he remarked.

 “Great,” Lestrade sighed, “I now have two deceased and a bird with inflammatory potential which I need to catch and keep until its owners come for it.”

 I had to ask, “So what do you normally do with smuggled animals?”

 “Generally we catch them and figure out someone on station who can care for them until their status is determined.  For the exotic stuff it’s most often the Royal menagerie at the other end of the park.”

 The firebird made a derisive noise.

 If I hadn’t been keeping my eyes on the bird I would have been surprised at what happened next.  The bird took off from the branch it was sitting on.  It flew around the clearing twice trilling all the way.  As it came around for the second time it altered course at the last minute skimming over Lestrade’s head making him duck.  It then back winged to a landing on my good shoulder buffeting Sherlock on the back of the head with a wing as it did so. 

 Sherlock glared at the bird after it had settled but didn’t say anything.

 “Intelligent huh?” Lestrade looked at Sherlock.  “How intelligent?”

 “Think young child,” Sherlock replied.

 The firebird chirped at him then decided to preen my hair.

 “Well I think the firebird had just indicated its preference for a caretaker.”  Lestrade looked at me. 

 I nodded my assent.

 “If, of course, it can stand to live with you,” he continued looking over at Sherlock.

 The firebird shifter chirped in agreement then reached over and grabbed a lock of Sherlock’s hair in its beak and pulled gently. 

 “I suppose we’ll be able to come to an accommodation,” Sherlock reached up and reclaimed his hair then held out his arm for the bird.

 The firebird gave a trill and stepped over onto the proffered arm and working his way up to Sherlock’s shoulder.  Of course as soon as he’d settled he proceeded to preen Sherlock’s hair.  The look on Sherlock’s face at that was priceless.

 I could see that Lestrade was trying not to laugh.  When he’d managed to get enough control he finally said, “You’ve given me enough to go on.  We can take it from here.  I’ll ping you if I need anything else.”  He paused a moment then added, “If you could see about getting word to the bird’s owners I’d appreciate it.”

 Sherlock made an affirmative noise then carefully turned and stalked off in the direction of Baker Street.  I as usual trailed along beside.  This time, however, was unique as I found myself walking in time to the firebird’s singing.


	2. Of Feathers and Finery

Living with Sherlock Homes accustoms one to dealing with the unexpected and the unique thus caring for a rare and endangered avian was not at all out of my comfort zone.  A bit of research had given me a good idea of what a firebird could eat as well as information on care of same.  I also, due to the fact that my queries were not extremely specific, had obtained a greater understanding of the legends and lore surrounding these unique birds.  Of course this particular bird happened to be a shifter.  Fortunately shifters in their animal form counterpart could be treated much the same as the mundane version of the animal albeit one that had human intelligence.

Marco in avian form was a relatively polite house guest and I was rather quickly learning to interpret both his body language and vocalizations.  My only concern about him was that he had not to my knowledge reverted to human form for the last five stan-days and I had no idea how long he’d been shifted prior to when we found him in the Royal Preserve.  Shifters in general did not tend to stay overly long in their animal form due to the potential to start losing their human qualities and intelligence.  It was a rare shifter indeed that could stay undercover, so to speak, in their animal form for long periods of time.  Those who could were highly sought after by the intelligence services as spies.  I suspected, however, that Marco was not here as a spy but had remained shifted to avoid dealing with something as a human.  This was a common coping trait among shifters especially to avoid being overwhelmed by emotions.  Given Marco’s propensity for breaking out in rather mournful song from time to time I figured that he might be using his shifted form to work through grief or some other sorrow.  Since he appeared to not be suffering any adverse effects from his prolonged stint as a bird I had determined not to broach the issue until I detected signs of potential intelligence deterioration.

I happened to be in the kitchen when I heard the flat door open followed by a surprised squawk.  There was an indistinct but familiar sounding voice followed by another more aggressive squawk that caused me to stop what I was doing and head for the sitting room.  This was primarily due to the fact that an aggressive Marco could literally have inflammatory consequences.  What I found was Mycroft Holmes standing stock still some two steps inside the door with Marco on the back of my chair with spread wings and head down.  That alone told me that he was ready to defend both me and the flat without the fact that every feather on his back between his neck to the tip of his plumed tail was outlined with flickering blue fire.  I realized that I needed to defuse the situation quickly.

“Stand down,” I shot at Marco in my best military tone as I strode into the room.  “Mycroft may be the Government on station and elsewhere but within the walls of this flat he’s merely Sherlock’s brother.” 

That gained me a look from both parties as I was now standing directly between them.

Turning to Mycroft I asked, “So what is the purpose of this visit?  As I’m sure you are aware Sherlock is not here right now.”

Mycroft’s face twitched in what I had learned was the Holmesian gesture of disapproval when the world did not comply to expectations.

Before he could say anything Sherlock chimed in from the doorway behind him, “He expected to meet me at the door.  His timing was off.”

Mycroft twitched minutely again which I interpreted as annoyance at being caught out by his little brother.

Sherlock sidled around his brother, who still hadn’t moved from where I had first found him, and got a good look at Marco.  Marco’s wings were half spread but he was no longer in an active threat display and I could see that his tail feathers which were draped down the back of my chair had stopped flaming. 

Sherlock looked back at his brother.

“I would appreciate it if you would refrain from upsetting my houseguest,” he said sternly in Mycroft’s direction.  He then turned fully to face Marco, “You have nothing to worry about.  He won’t do anything to you.  John and I won’t let him.”

Marco made a rude noise as he folded and settled his wings.

Sherlock huffed and raised an eyebrow in return.

I interpreted the exchange as _Really?_ from Marco and _I know all his secrets and pressure points_ from Sherlock.  This was confirmed as I caught a slight eye roll from Mycroft which I interpreted as _Not all little brother_.

I decided to head off any more nonverbal sparring by asking, “Tea anyone?  I was just making some.”

“No thank you John,” Mycroft replied, “I won’t be staying.  I just dropped by to inform you,” He indicated all three of us by his glance, “about some intelligence that my office acquired this morning.”

Marco beat Sherlock’s _Oh really?_ by about half segment with a questioning trill.

“You might be interested to know that the Phoenix is heading in this direction.  ETA is five or six stan-days depending upon which jump points they use.” 

“Considering I sent a message to them that is not surprising,” remarked Sherlock. 

His tone clearly indicated that he didn’t believe that this rather prosaic information was the sole reason for Mycroft’s visit.  Such information could have just as easily been sent via peeda rather than delivered in person.

“More concerning however,” Mycroft continued, “is the imminent docking of a fast packet known as _The Flintlock_.”

I could tell that Mycroft was watching Marco closely for any reaction.  He didn’t get one that I could tell.

“ _The Flintlock_ has been suspected for years of Whitebeard affiliations,” Mycroft continued, “but no one has made a definitive legal connection.”

Marco made an amused noise at that and I interpreted his body language as something to the effect of _and you never will._

“I came to provide you the declared crew and passenger list.  Just make sure if there are indeed Whitebeard affiliates on board that they don’t make trouble in their search for their missing,” Mycroft paused for a moment looking for a word.  “Sibling,” he finally concluded looking directly at Marco. 

“And you expect me to do this for you?” Sherlock asked.

“No, I expect you to engage in simple assistance to the government as part of your civic duty.”

Marco made another amused noise at that.

“Fine,” Sherlock said shortly looking at Marco, “If the situation warrants I will intervene for the good of the orbital.”

“All I can ask brother dear,” Mycroft replied as he turned, dropped a flimsy on the coffee table and exited the flat.

The door had barely closed when Sherlock moved to grab the flimsy.  He read it and shrugged.

“No names I recognize.”

Marco made a noise and gestured with his head at the coffee table.  Sherlock interpreted that as a request to look at the flimsy and laid it down.  Marco in turn hopped over onto the table using his wings for balance and proceeded to look at the list.  After reading the names he let out a soft disgusted sounding squawk.  Apparently he knew at least one of the names on the list and was none too pleased about them being here.

“Who?” asked Sherlock.

Marco pointed to two names with his beak. 

“And who are they?”

Marco gave Sherlock a rather disgusted look along the lines of _really you should be able to figure this out_.  He tapped the two names again with his beak.

Sherlock looked again then suddenly said “Oh, anagrams.”

“So?” I asked. 

“They have most likely been tracking Marco.  Given who they are they have the potential to cause untold havoc as they attempt to locate him.”

Marco squawked in agreement.

“That still doesn’t tell me anything,” I remarked.

“We are about to play host to two of the more dangerous commanders of the Whitebeard Pirates, Haruta the 12th division commander and Izo who has the 16th division.”  Sherlock paused for a moment then continued, “Luckily of the lot of them they are the most likely to ask questions first and fight later present company excluded.”

“Other than meeting them at the docks which,” I looked down at the flimsy for the estimated docking time, “I suspect is too late at this point, how do we find them before they cause any havoc?”

Marco trilled and once he had our attention he tapped his foot on the shorter of the two names.  He then proceeded to preen his feathers. 

“Oh,” said Sherlock, “and Haruta?”

Marco looked around then hopped across the coffee table and stuck his head into an empty scotch glass. 

I understood that one.  Haruta would most likely be found chasing leads in the spacer bars of the 01 level. 

“Ok,” Sherlock started in once Marco got his head out of the glass, “here’s what we’ll do.  I’ll go and check with my informants who frequent establishments on the 01.  They’ll keep an eye out and let me know when and where Haruta turns up.  You’ll need to go over to the Savil district and see if you can find Izo.  He’ll be looking for silk apparel.  If you don’t find him there take a swing through the Flea Market in 9c.  They tend to specialize in fabric and clothing.”

I wasn’t terribly thrilled with my assignment since I really know nothing at all about clothes and fabric. 

“So how am I supposed to find this guy?” I asked.  “Do you have a picture or something?” 

Marco made a noise that I interpreted as an avian laugh.

“You shouldn’t have any problem at all.  Just look for a 1.7 meter tall guy in a kimono.  It will most likely be primarily pink with white or purple accents.”

Marco hopped over to the sofa and pecked at one of the pillows.

Sherlock watched him then added, “And a bright red spotted Obi.”

“That doesn’t sound too hard.  What do you want me to do when I find him?”

Marco trilled a warning note.

Sherlock considered a moment before responding, “If he doesn’t spot you follow him and ping me.  If he does let him reverse tail you to the Pig and Whistle.  I’ll make sure I’m there at 1600.’

“Right,” I responded grabbing my peeda and heading for the door.

Marco trilled something that I figured was either _good luck_ or _happy hunting_ and Sherlock added “meet me at the pub whether you find him or not.”

I didn’t bother to respond just waived my hand in acknowledgement and took off.

Two stans later found me in the Savil district on 8.  I had spent a little time researching clothiers that might appeal and had made the rounds of several coffee shops in their vicinity thinking that one of the baristas in that sort of establishment might have spotted something as unique as a pink kimono wandering around.  No such luck.  That meant I’d have to actually enter one or more of the identified establishments.  I chose the closest one to my current location and went in.

“Just a moment,” a cheery female voice echoed from somewhere in the depths of the store. 

I looked around.  This particular establishment seemed to be selling high end woman’s clothing with styles reminiscent of the Asian and Indian garments of Old Earth.  They actually had historically accurate kimonos and saris on display in cases.  Given the description of my quarry this would be exactly the type of store Izo would frequent if he wished to purchase something new. 

“How may I help you?”

A petite dark haired female had appeared at my elbow while I was gazing at the merchandise.  I was going to have to think fast.

“Well, Umm, this is going to sound strange,” I started in, “but I’m trying to locate a present for a friend of mine and I’m having a hard time finding the right color but I saw the exact shade on the trim of this pink kimono so…” I trailed off hoping to get a response.

The shopkeeper smiled up at me, “Oh that shade won’t do at all Dr. Watson.”

My first though was surprise that I’d been recognized.  Usually no one seems to notice me because they are too busy looking at Sherlock.  My second thought was that this could get very uncomfortable very quickly.  At about that point I realized I had almost missed the most important bit, this woman knew the kimono and had seen it recently if she recalled the shade of purple in question.

The shopkeeper luckily didn’t notice my abstraction as she walked over to the counter and proceeded to fish around for something.  She came up with a small square of material.  It was shiny and a color that I couldn’t tell whether it was silver grey or silver lilac. 

“This is the color you need for Mr. Holmes,” she said grinning as she handed it to me, “and the kimono you are chasing is heading for Sari’s Silks in the 9c market.” 

I didn’t know quite what to say so I defaulted to politeness, “Thank you.”

“I’m a big fan,” she gushed, “Am I going to be reading about this sometime?”

This was familiar territory for me.  “I’m not sure at this point.  Confidentiality and all that,” I replied.

She looked like she was going to say something else but her peeda chimed.  She smiled again at me, “You better get going if you are going to catch him.”  She made shooing motions and grabbed the tablet to respond.

I took that as a dismissal and left heading for the Flea Market on 9c.

It didn’t take me more than 10 ticks to get up to the 9c Flea.  This was most likely due to the fact that Sherlock had at one time or another hauled me through practically every maintenance corridor and hidden pass-through in the entire orbital.  While I didn’t have his encyclopedia knowledge of routes or a mental map I could generally get from point A to point B a bit more expeditiously than the normal bloke.

When I arrived I was very glad that I had used the shortcut because not only did I spot the pink and purple kimono I also got a good look at the agent who happened to be following along in his wake.  He was one of Mycroft’s bunch and I recognized him.  His name was Leroy and he’d been a part of an unwanted security detail that Mycroft had saddled me with during Sherlock’s hiatus.  Luckily he didn’t see me.

Since Leroy was already on a close tail I simply hung back and watched him watching the guy in the pink kimono who presumably was Izo.  Izo was currently engaged in haggling over a silk garment with a merchant.  I also noticed that he was shifting his position as he haggled so he could get a good look at his back trail in the fitting mirror of the merchant’s stall.  At that point I was willing to bet that he had already spotted Leroy and was now looking to see if he was working with someone.  To avoid being pegged I decided to just walk straight past both Leroy and the booth.  I also used the stroll to ping Sherlock effectively killing two birds with one stone.

I swung around the end of the aisle and then loitered pretending to browse belt buckles.  I didn’t have to wait long.  It was only a couple of ticks before Izo came round the corner bearing a bag presumably containing his purchase.  Leroy wandered past next and I brought up the rear. 

I trailed the two of them to a noodle shop.  Izo was in line to order and Leroy had also entered and appeared to be perusing the menu.  I was just about to enter when I noticed Izo had paid for his order, received a call number and was heading toward the loo.  I decided to stay put and window shop in the corridor.  If my hunch was correct then I should see Izo pop out the delivery access from this set of shops.  As it was I almost missed him since he’d used his three ticks in the loo to ditch the kimono and switch to a set of drawstring grey pants and a black silk shirt.  He’d even turned the carry bag inside out. 

Luckily the corridor was reasonably well populated so it was not terribly hard to trail Izo without being blatantly obvious.  What was going to be tricky however was if he happened to get on a lift which was a high probability given the direction in which he was currently headed.  Just before we hit the lift lobby my peeda pinged.  It was Sherlock instructing me to break off the tailing and meet him at a pub called O’Shaunasy’s about two corridors spinward from the Pig and Whistle. 

I smiled to myself and proceeded to get on the next lift heading down level.  It was a relatively full lift and I belatedly realized that Izo was also in the car.  By the time we got to the 01 there were only five people left in the lift and only Izo and I exited on that floor.  I decided that just in case Sherlock wanted a private meeting I’d head the opposite direction from Izo and cut back through the nonpublic corridors. 

About six ticks later I made it to the secondary entrance of O’Shaunasy’s and walked in.  As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting I heard someone say my name.  I turned and just had time enough to recognize Sherlock in his maintenance worker disguise before he kissed me.  Kissing Sherlock Holmes is an intense experience.  No matter what else he is doing at the time I always have the feeling that a good portion of his formidable intellect is focused upon making this particular kiss the most memorable in my existence.  This time was no exception and my brain went off line for a moment or two. 

When he stopped Sherlock said softly, “Haruta’s in the third booth from the back hallway opening and Izo just walked in the front when I grabbed you.  We need to get closer to them.”

I backed up out of his embrace and gave him an opening. 

“Let me get us a drink.  You find us somewhere to sit,” I said loud enough to be overheard.

By the time I had obtained two beers Sherlock had managed to get a table.  I plunked the beers down and realized that this particular table gave Sherlock a good view of Izo and Haruta in their booth.  Of course that meant I ended up with most of my back to the pair. 

It didn’t end up mattering much though because no sooner than I had sat down Sherlock stiffened his eyes looking over my shoulder.  I raised an eyebrow for instructions and got a minute head shake in return.  I stayed put and played oblivious even though I could hear footsteps approaching. 

“Mr. Homes, Dr. Watson?” a high tenor voice asked. 

It wasn’t really a question.  I looked up to see a rather androgynous looking figure wearing a white ruffled shirt, black trousers, and a form fitting coat.  It was the gentleman, though the more I looked the more unsure I was about which gender specific noun to use, whom Sherlock had identified as Haruta.

“I was told,” he continued, “to look you up if I had trouble locating someone on this orbital.  I can’t, however, wonder if it is just a coincidence to find you here when I haven’t even really started looking yet.”

Sherlock cocked his head, “I’ve been told that once is happenstance, twice is coincidence and third time is enemy action.”

Haruta chuckled, “Then we’ll need to chalk it up to coincidence since Dr. Watson was in the same lift as my companion earlier.  I’d hate to label it enemy action since we’ve only been docked for four stans or so.”

“No we must not label it as that,” Sherlock agreed, “the powers that be might take exception.” 

“Since we have now agreed upon the appropriate labeling might I invite you to join my friend and I for additional discussions?”

I could see that Sherlock was considering a retort which would highlight the inexact wording of the invitation.  Surprisingly however he refrained from voicing it.  He merely stood up, grabbed his beer and made an _after you_ gesture.  We relocated to the booth and settled down with Sherlock and I on one side, Haruta and Izo on the other.  

Izo when he wasn’t wearing a kimono or makeup, looked exactly like what he was; the most dangerous of the bunch of a motley crew of pirates.  Haruta on the other hand was smaller and looked fragile, delicate even.  I could tell however from Sherlock’s body language that despite appearances he considered Haruta the more dangerous of the two.

After a tick or two of silence Izo started in, “We are looking for a friend of ours.  The ship he was on was heading here but we have found no records of its docking or if it had filed a system transit plan.  The only indication it was ever in system was a ship-id reference in a transit report from the outer beacon.” 

“Erasing something that thoroughly requires a high degree of knowledge as well as access.”  Haurta remarked.  “We were going to contact you from the inner beacon but given the conspicuous lack of data we figured it might be better done in person.”

“Good thing too,” Izo continued, “Because when we docked there were no less than three stories on the rumor net of a small ship that had been seized by the government.  That doesn’t even mention the fact that I picked up a tail as soon as I stepped off the ship.”

“In addition, given your profile on the orbital, your familial connections and your personal knowledge of our friend I didn’t know whether you might be protecting him.  If that was the case I didn’t want to draw whatever attention you were attempting to shield him from by showing up on your doorstep so to speak.”  Haruta paused momentarily, “I also had to consider if our friend was hiding from us; another reason that I needed to be careful in contacting you.  But all this is beside the point since you found us.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock as he took in all of the information, “I presume the friend you are carefully not naming is Marco captain of the ship Phoenix.”

“Correct,” replied Izo.  “Do you know where he is?”

Sherlock didn’t respond immediately.  Instead he tapped his foot on mine two short, two long, two short;  A question mark.  He was going to rely on my assessment of whether these two meant our feathered houseguest any harm.

“He’s fine,” I answered gaining the full attention of the two commanders who stared at me.

“Uh,” Izo finally said, “Is he currently…I mean does he…umm…”

“Does he have feathers?” Haruta interrupted.

I gave a short nod.

“I was afraid of that.”  Haruta thought for a moment then continued, “This is going to sound a little strange, does he know who he is?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered before I could, “and he’s in full possession of his faculties given that he picked your anagrammed names out of a ships list.”

“That’s encouraging,” said Izo.  “I fully expected to find something or someone immolated given the circumstances.”

“He actually did immolate the head of one of our local smuggling rings,” Sherlock remarked seemingly offhandedly. 

“Only after said smuggler had shot his shipmate,” I added.

Izo winced and looked at Haruta, “I don’t know if this is a good idea anymore.  Given the fact that he’s frying people I don’t know if seeing us is going to make things better or worse.”

“That was five stan-days ago,” I added, “and he didn’t even scorch Sherlock’s brother this morning though I know he would have liked to do so.” 

Haruta raised an eyebrow in question.

Sherlock snorted, “It’s a common reaction to dealing with my brother.”

“Regardless,” Izo said, “If he’s on that much of a hair trigger then our presence might do more harm than good.” 

He looked at Sherlock as if asking for his opinion on the matter.

“Not really my area,” Sherlock responded to the unasked question then looked at me.

Haurta looked at me hopefully.  I could tell that this meant a lot as Haruta was holding very still probably to avoid vibrating with excitement.

“Well,” I said choosing my words carefully, “If I had a better idea of what caused him to shift and stay shifted I might be able to give you a better idea.”

“If you happen to know,” Sherlock added.

Izo and Haruta shared a glance.  Haruta calmed down a bit as a result.

“I knew we were moving fast,” Izo said, “but I didn’t think we outran the speed of gossip!”

Haruta made a face at him then asked Sherlock, “What do you know about Marinford?”

“It’s a system on the grand line,” I responded.

“And one of the few with direct jump point access into Collective World’s space,” Sherlock added.

Iso and Haruta looked at each other again.

“You know about Teach,” Izo said looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock inclined his head in agreement.

Haruta started speaking before Izo could react to Sherlock’s acknolegement, “Well some of our folks went after him and got caught.  They were going to execute them on Marienford prime.  We knew it was a trap but we went in anyway.  Long story short we lost some ships, we also lost a bunch of folks in the downside attack including Whitebeard,” Haruta paused and closed his eyes apparently remembering the battle.

When he didn’t continue Izo took up the narrative, “It would have been a scorched earth situation for both sides if Shanks hadn’t shown up.  I have no idea what leverage he had on the Collective Worlds but whatever it was it was potent enough to allow us to get out without a hand raised against us.” 

“Teach was pissed,” Haruta chimed in shaking off whatever memory had caused him to go silent.  “I suspect his deal with the Collective meant that he had to stand there and watch us go.”

“Marco was with me when we took off,” Izo continued.  “He was upset about Whitebeard but I think he was more upset about a friend of his that Teach took out personally.”

“Ace,” said Sherlock.

“How the hell do you know that?” he sputtered.  “I didn’t even then know that they were…”  Izo shut up suddenly.

“He spent a few days on the Pheonix, Izo,” Haruta calmly reminded his companion.

“And I set up the information drop just before we thought the ship was going to be destroyed by running into the tail of a comet.  There was one sealed personal message in the bunch addressed to Portgas D. Ace,” Sherlock added before either Izo or Haruta could say anything else.

I was getting a good idea of just what Marco was running away from and why he had stayed in bird form.  Losing a commander, a lover and then a shipmate would be quite traumatic.  It would be even more so if my suspicions about Marco’s shifted form were correct.  Little bits and pieces of my reading, a couple things Sherlock had mentioned, along with his control over his fire made me think that he was not just a firebird.  If Marco was indeed what I thought he was then we had dodged a catastrophe since he clearly had the capacity to go up in smoke literally.  That would have been a conflagration with enough power to take out the entire orbital. 

Now I had to decide whether or not Izo and Haruta would be more likely to set him off or calm him down.  Marco knew they were on station since he’d picked their names off the crew list.  He hadn’t seemed upset then but who knew what seeing them in person would invoke.  I thought a bit more, ignoring the conversation going on around me.  Suddenly I knew what needed to be done.

“Ok,” I said interrupting Sherlock’s attempts to get intelligence about the state of both the Collective World and Whitebeard forces after the battle, “I know what to do.”

All three looked at me, two hopeful one curious.

“We are going to adjourn to Baker Street.  You,” I looked at the three of them, “Are going to wait in the Café and I’m going to talk to Marco.  I’ll bip Sherlock when I’m done.”

I expected objections.  I didn’t get any.  We extricated ourselves from the bar and headed for the flat where I was going to have to face a highly dangerous mourning bird.


	3. Epilogue: Deductions and Declarations

I sat back in my chair having just sent off _The Case of the Fractious Firebird_ to my long suffering beta reader Mary.  The case, like most of my write ups these days, was heavily edited with huge swatches of the case obscured or outright omitted.  Still even in its truncated form I thought it made a good read.  Whether it did or not, Mary would give me enough commentary to enable me to put it right.  I stood up and stretched then looked around for my flat mate.  He was lying on the sofa; hands pressed together holding a turquoise feather against his lips deep in thought.

“Tea?” I asked not really expecting an answer given his thinking pose.

“Yes,” he said surprising me as he sat up.

A couple of ticks later we sat facing each other in our chairs, tea in hand.  Sherlock was still holding the feather twirling it gently in his fingers.

“As much as it pains me to admit it,” he said, “there are a few things about this case that I don’t quite understand.”

“Why do you think that?” I asked.

“Because it has to do with sentiment and interpersonal relationships; as you are well aware those are definitely not my forte.”

“So what exactly are you puzzled by?”

“Izo and Huerta were quite concerned about Marco’s incendiary tendencies when to my knowledge a shifter staying in animal form is of much more concern.  There was also something slightly off about Hureta’s inquiries about Marco’s mental state.”  Sherlock looked at me for a reaction then continued, “Yevette’s first message when the Phoenix made port was also strange.  It was almost as if she was expecting him to be dead.”

“True,” I replied neutrally, “that was a bit strange.”

“Alexia’s body language when she came to pick him up was also off.  She was overly surprised by his enthusiastic reaction to her presence.”

“That was interesting,” I acknowledged then tried to change the subject.  “They say that everyone has a doppelganger somewhere.  I never expected mine to be female and a security officer on a pirate ship.”

Sherlock didn’t bite.

“And you have been running around for the last few stan-days radiating smugness.” 

Sherlock waggled his finger at me.

“You only do that when you think you know something that I have failed to deduce!”  He paused again then added, “So…out with it.  What did I miss?”

“It wasn’t so much a failure of deduction but a failure to use the proper data set,” I reassured him.

He rolled his eyes at me and asked, “What data set?”

“Myth and legend generally, Firebird lore specifically.”

“Stories are not facts,” Sherlock scoffed.  “You are a writer and don’t generally confuse the two.”

“No, but stories like that are told for a reason and from that reason truth can sometimes be found that may be verified with facts,” I replied.

“So what legend have you purportedly verified?”

“Marco’s shifted form is a firebird.  He’s an unusual color but it’s one that is not unknown in nature.  Firebirds while vocal do not tend to sing melodiously.  Marco sings quite well to the point of being able to harmonize with your violin playing.  Firebirds also tend to drip sparks and spit fire when surprised or upset.  Marco’s feathers instead outline with blue flames.”

I paused for a moment to let these anomalies sink in then continued, “While I was researching what to feed him I came across references to a distinctly different and legendary bird.  This bird controls fire and sings while it does so.  It also has a tendency toward the end of its life to immolate itself and rise reborn from the ashes of its own destruction.  When this happens it is in effect a new bird, the old having been completely consumed in the fire.  Now,” I said quietly, “correlate that with those statements and reactions that you don’t understand.”

I sat back and waited.  Sherlock put down the feather and steepled his hands in front of his face as he thought.  I knew things were starting to come together when he started pursing his lips slightly in and out.  Suddenly he made a slight humming noise that usually signaled the end of a chain of deductions.  He dropped his hands and looked straight at me.

“When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” he intoned.  “Marco is a Phoenix.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here we are at the end of another story. Therefore as is my custom:
> 
> _If this writer has offended,_   
>  _Think but this and all is mended,_   
>  _That you have but tarried here,_   
>  _Whilst each chapter did appear,_   
>  _And these word upon this theme,_   
>  _Are of no import, only my dream._
> 
> It has been an honor to share my dream with you.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again my muse's fascination with Marco has resulted in another tale from the Piece of Eight crossover AU. This takes place after the Case of the Absent Avian in the AU timeline and directly after the battle of Marienford in the One Piece timeline.


End file.
